


You Had Me at 'Five-Star Doggie Bag'

by ElizabethJaneway1158



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Approximately Season 6, Arguing, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 10:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15435291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethJaneway1158/pseuds/ElizabethJaneway1158
Summary: The title really has no reflection on the mood this ficlet sets. It's just my favorite Scully line I've ever written in my life. Needless to say, she's been hanging around Mulder too long. Anyway:Mid-to-ass-end of season six. Mulder ditches Scully once more and she's fed up with it. Goes to a bar, brings a man home, and chaos ensues.**WARNING**: Small suggestion/hinting at rape. It DOES NOT happen. Just FYI.





	You Had Me at 'Five-Star Doggie Bag'

**Author's Note:**

> I've lost all of my Beta's. So. Apologies. I hope you enjoy. I was inspired by a rando fic prompt list on the Tumblsphere. Most of the dialogue was negative. Although, I love me some drama, I think this may be at the peak angst for me. I really tried to hold true to the structure of the characters.

 

Six o’clock. That’s what he’d said. To be precise, he said:

“ _Six o’clock, Scully. You. Me. Your place. Thai. And those damn expense reports.”_

Yep. That ship sailed about two and a half hours ago. The ninth time you get ready to call him, you toss your phone on the kitchen table and grab your jacket.

With every lamp and light that’s switched off, your anger builds. That dormant rebellious streak rears its ugly head. To the bar. For dinner and drinks. _Lots of drinks._

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-  

The whiskey stopped burning a few drinks ago. Thai and reports long past due. You really wanted that Pad Thai too, damn it. Mulder’s probably out on another wild goose chase. What about you? You could’ve made—oh, fuck it. The both of you know that you never have plans.

A large body brushes your side for the fourth time in just as many minutes. This time the slight tug on the tight fabric of your skirt chafes high on your thigh. Nerve endings long dormant sparkle to life; gooseflesh dances across your skin.

He’s looking at you. Sizing you up.

Good. Forget Mulder. Serves him right.

Venturing out on its own, a well-manicured pinky finger scratches playfully against the warm hand dangerously close to your empty glass.

“Hey. Ready for another?” His voice, deep and rich; a refreshing balm to your sour mood.  

“Mm. ‘Fraid not.”

“Work tomorrow, eh?” You nod, gauging how drunk you actually are.

“And you’re downing Glenlivet like it’s being taken back overseas.”

 _Hmm._ “You know your liquor.”

“You know your whiskey.” _Very nice. Interested or not? Check the—yes. He’ll do._

Here it is. The lull. Small talk and fuck? Or simply…? Oh, what the hell.

“My apartment is a few blocks north of here.”

“Wow. Uh. Yeah. Sure. Just let me,” he downs his glass in a few gulps. Your moral compass is spinning wildly, not sure where north went. You’re cutting loose.

His arm drapes comfortably around your back; claiming you. That was simple enough. Getting older clearly has perks. No wasting time with the omnipresent, ‘So, where are you from’ bullshit.

He slides cash to the bartender for both of your drinks, not without a massive tip, and picks up your jacket. _Impressive._   

The walk is short. His hand falls just near the small of your back, setting into motion a sudden pang of guilt and clarity. Strong fingers fully grip your left ass cheek and all bets are off.

Door barely opened and he’s on you. Hot and heavy. Oh. Dear God, this is _good_. You don’t even know the man and your underwear is soaked. You’re getting fucked tonight. And that’s all that matters.

“Mmph. Cl’se th’ d’r.”

“Yeah.”

He kicks it with his broad foot. The rattle of the doorframe calls out to you.

**_“DANA.”_ **

Nope. Not going to be discouraged. You deserve this. You—oh, God _damn_ his hands are under your skirt.

“Jesus, you’re wet.”

“Mmhm,” you capture his earlobe to whisper, “ _The question is: What are you going to do about it?”_

Things turn a bit foggy. Somehow, you clamber together to the couch. Your blouse is ripped open, his pants are down around his ankles, the front closure of your bra undone, his thick fingers tangled in your hair, your swollen lips closing around the head of his cock, and you’re positive you’ve never been so turned on in your life.

“H-holy fuc-king _shiiiii-hiiiit._ You. Are. Magnificent.”

Yes. Yes, you are. You rock at sucking dick. At least that’s what Matt Hastings told you at Becky McKee’s seventeenth birthday party. A hidden talent to last through the ages. Good to know that some things don’t leave you with lack of practice.

Things are going quite well, until your stranger roughly pushes your head down further and tears run down your cheek. Hey. Wait a minute. You pull back and he forces you down again.

_“Mmph!”_

“Shh! C’mon, babe, you’re nearly there. _Ohhhh, yeah. Suck that dick. Fuckin— **JESUS FUCKING CHRIST**_ —“

Sadly, this is not the first time you’ve ever bitten down on a penis. Self-defense at its finest. The thought makes you chuckle. Oh, shit. You’re still pretty drunk. Not to mention you just bit a large male’s penis and are suddenly pressed to the cool hardwood floor of your apartment.

“Fucking bitch! I swear, I’ll—“

“Get _the fuck_ off her,” the muzzle of a Sig glints in the dim light right behind the man’s head. _Who?_

“Buddy, you need to—“ the butt of the firearm connects with the back of his head. Quite forcefully. _Mulder. How?_

He’s jerked out of your line of vision and all heat is instantly sucked from your body. Shivering from the cold, shock, or both, you wrap your arms around the front of your exposed body.

“If you so much as _move,_ you _worthless motherfucker_ , I will have your ass in lock up and charged with assault on a federal agent.”

“Fuck y—“

Another punch. _Wrong answer._ Scuffling feet followed by the snick of a safety proceeds a heavy silence.

“ _Get out._ ”

You prop yourself up against the drawers of your desk just in time to watch ‘Mr. Masculine’ run like a little bitch. The tang of pre-ejaculate and stale alcohol make their way to the top of your throat. You don’t need him to rescue you every single moment you try and get a life.

“ _OhhhhmyGod_.” Head throbbing in sync with your pulse, you are in no mood to deal with any of this right now.

Mulder is beside you instantly. In your face. Checking you for injuries. Never mind the fact that your tits are out for God and everyone to see. He drops his gaze momentarily. Now he notices. _God! What is he staring at?_ Stumbling hands clumsily pull your blouse closed. What—

“Muld--,” he swats a cup from the coffee table, sending it skittering across the floor. He thinks, only for a moment. Absorbing it all. Then he vaults from the floor. Nothing but pent up energy. With barely controlled fury, he straightens the furniture the best he can.

You watch this odd display closely. Waiting. Willing your stomach to keep calm enough not to embarrass yourself. Not sure of which object to take his aggression out on, Mulder finally settles for pacing manically behind the couch.

“Mulder. What the hell are you doing here?”

“’What the hell am _I_ doing here’, Scully? _Seriously?_ ” he kicks at something on the floor. The oily scent of Pad Thai permeates the room. “I think I am the one that deserves to be asking ‘what the hell _you_ are doing ’!” He slams the door, nearly taking it off its hinges.

“Excuse me? I live here. This is _my_ apartment. Remember?” You struggle to rise, ankles protesting the fact that it’s nearly three in the morning and you’re still wearing your heels.

“Did you forget dinner, Scully? I was--,” in a sudden fit of rage, you hurl a pump at his head. Too bad it strikes the back of the couch.

“Dinner? _Dinner?!_ At _three_ in the _fucking_ morning? _Get real, Mulder!”_

“I got here at midnight and found the place empty. I spent the next three hours looking for you. Calling your cellphone. Which, by the way is sitting on your kitchen table. A whole lot of good it’s doing us sitting here.”

“ _You_ called _me_? I called your phone at _least_ eight times. Damnit, I’m tired of having conversations with your voicemail! I also didn’t want to wait for dinner until you were sure that all of your top secret affairs were in order. I took it upon myself to make an adult decision—last I checked, I am a fully-functioning intellectual—and go to a bar. I don’t see the problem.”

 “Let me make sure I’m understanding you. I’m a little late and you just decide to go get drunk and suck off the first fucking lowlife you meet?”

“’A little late’? _A little?_ Mulder, an hour is ‘a little’ late! Two hours is ‘a lot’ late. But FIVE? I am _not_ —“

“Something came up. I was going to—“

“’Something’ _always_ comes up!”

“Scully, you know how important my sources—“

“ _Your ‘sources’._ Uh huh. And what’s the new intel, Mulder? Did someone see another light in the sky that needs overanalyzing?” A little harsh, but inherently true nonetheless. You pick at, what you assume is, a piece of lint on your new Donna Karan skirt.

“Wow. I just—what in the hell? What has gotten into you? Y-Your focus, your drive; it’s like you don’t even care anymore. Like the X-Files are just a burden for you now.”

 _“Now?_ They’re a burden for me _now?_ ” Bile and three tumblers of whiskey is threatening to burn a hole in your esophagus, but there is a deeper pain now. Anger. Disappointment. Guilt. _No!_ You need to stand your ground. You’ve had losses too. You have stake in this crusade. He should know that, dammit.

“What is that supposed to mean? ‘ _Now’?_ ”

“If you need me to explain it to you, it’s not worth wasting my breath.”

“Why do you always have to be so dramatic,” he swipes angrily at his eyes.

“ _Me? I’m_ dramatic?” You chuckle dryly, dropping the other heel unceremoniously to the floor. With the pantyhose already running in approximately six different places, you cut your losses and rip them off at the seams. “Get out. Go home. I’ll finish the reports in the morning.”

He turns and heads for the door, only to stop short just before he reaches for the handle and stalks back toward you.

“Jesus! What do you want, Mulder?” The strength in your voice diminishes instantly when he grips your wrists. _Hard._

“What would you have done?”

Using his height and your state of inebriation to his advantage, he steers you to the couch. Pinning you down.

“Mulder! You’re—mm!” A hand clamps over your mouth; dangerously close to closing off the air supply to your nasal passage.

“He would’ve had you like this in about sixty more seconds.”

You can’t decide whether to be turned on or enraged.

“He could’ve done anything. _Anything he wanted to.”_ The rasp of his voice accelerates your heartrate. You’re beginning to feel the claustrophobia settle in. “You would’ve risked this?” Squirming. Wriggling. Trying desperately to escape. The more you move, the tighter the hold becomes. He releases your mouth and lets up significantly on the pressure of his grasp.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?“

“I want an answer, Scully. How? How would you have dealt with that situation and continued on living your life as if nothing had happened?” He’s warm. Your body feels every firm inch of him pressed to you. _God damn him._

Tears prickle unbidden at the backs of your eyes. You know he’s right. _He_ knows he’s right. Unbelievably, his eyes are shimmering too. You’re speechless. Heartbroken all over again. Betrayed by your own ill-advised choices.

“Dana.”

“Don’t.”

“If you are telling me that you would have let him ra—“

“Oh _, fuck you_ , Mr. Machismo. I am a trained Federal Agent. Not in need of any kind of rescue operation. Perfectly capable of consenting to whatever—“

“If that was consensual—“

“Get _off_ me and your God damned high horse.” You push roughly at his shoulders and he relents, sinking back into the plush cushions in defeat.

“Get out of my sight, Mulder. I’m going to take some time away,” getting up from the couch as fast as you can, you head for your bedroom. “And when I’m finished, I suggest you do the same. I don’t think I want to see you again for a while.”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he mumbles half-heartedly. “Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll leave.”

 _“Mulder,”_ you warn. You’re down the hall, ready to slip into bed and never wake up.

“Tell me that you were not opening yourself up to an extremely dangerous situation just because you were pissed off that I ditched.”

What an arrogant asshole. How dare he?

“Wow. You really don’t hear yourself.” A new batch of tears well in your eyes and spill over.

“What?”

“I can’t believe it. You don’t know, do you? It’s as if you _actually_ believe that the world revolves around you. Well, guess what? It doesn’t. And living in your shadow is _exhausting_. Cleaning up your messes. Protecting you at all costs. I feel used. Belittled.”

“I am constantly expected to take a backseat to Fox Mulder’s wants and needs. To continually lose pieces of myself and sacrifice all I can give, just to be--,” you choke and mistakenly look back at Mulder’s face to see the utter sadness and disbelief. “The fact is, you don’t see me at all. You never have. And I have grown tired of it.”

“How could you even—what? I—,” he sounds so lost. And you’re not sure you want to try and find him this time.

“Just…go home, Mulder.” You’re both exhausted. How is it almost already four-thirty? Jesus, please end this day already. You’re seriously contemplating sitting down and emailing Skinner right then and there. “I am done with this day, done with this argument. Done dealing with it all for a while.”

You reach the foot of your bed when strong arms capture you from behind and trap you in a desperate embrace. Mulder clutches you to his chest. Heaving breaths disturbing the sensitive hair on your neck awakens the smothering affection you’ve come to expect from your body. Cursing your lack of resolve, once again, you relent. Simply existing in his arms.

Offering comfort, you maneuver to face him. Reaching to scratch soothingly at his scalp, your fingers attempt to comb his wild hair; the other hand idly runs up and down his bicep.

“Mulder, I—“

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I haven’t told you.”

“Tell me what?” Your mind rushes through all the terrifying possibilities of what is going to leave his mouth.  

“How much you mean to me. What you make me feel—It’s— _God_ , it’s terrifying. Not being able to—not knowing when or if you’re going to walk out of that basement office and never come back.”

He’s rambling now. Words tumbling forth at an alarming rate. Something is coming. Something you’re not sure you’re quite ready to hear.

“Scully, you are _everything_ I see. You are the _only_ thing I see. I don’t know why I’m such an ass. I’m not capable of using rational thought around you sometimes. Alright, most of the time. But, it’s just—it’s the way you— _Dana,_ ” if possible, he burrows deeper into the crook of your neck. As if he could mold himself to your body and never leave.

“You make me want things that I can’t have.”

Your heart. It nearly stops when he pulls back to look right at you. Right into your eyes. You feel like he can hear your every thought; at one time, he could. It’s not fair. It’s not fair how vital he is to you. How he can push and pull you to the point of breaking with just a few simple words.

“What do you think you can’t have?”

He sighs deeply. Resting his forehead against yours, he swallows, pausing to gather himself.

“A normal life.” Breath leaves you.

 _Oh, Mulder. Sweet sweet Mulder._ How is it that he can go from pissing you off straight to touching your soul?

The alcohol, stress of the day, this moment. What is he expecting you to say? That you want it too? _Of course, you do!_ But this? Right now? This is so unorthodox. Haphazardly thrown out into the open in an act of desperation. A late night of opening wounds and pouring the salt in.

He’s uncoiling himself from around you, beginning to retreat. Still, you can’t think of anything to say. Tongue tied in a knot of insecurity.

“I’m sorry. I’ll let myself—“ _This is it. He’s going to leave. Hole himself up. Off to hide behind his dark depression._ Wait. _Wait!_

“Fox Mulder, don’t you dare.”

He freezes.

“Don’t feel obligated—“

“You can’t say these things and simply leave.”

“Scully, I really should just go.”

“Now who’s being dramatic?” The both of you laugh softly; Mulder turning to face you with thinly veiled hope pulling at the corner of his mouth.  

“Come here. Please?” No. You’re not letting him out of your sight. Offering an olive branch in the form of an outstretched hand, you wait.

“Just come to bed. We both need sleep,” you whisper gently. Unexpected nervousness flutters low in your belly. You’re afraid if he leaves, you’ll never again reach this rare vulnerability that the cover of night has to give.

His hazel eyes are wide; eyebrow arching, questioning your ability to make sound decisions at this late hour.

“Yes, Mulder. Bed. We’ve slept in one together before. Let’s not let it bother us,” he stiffly accepts your hand and allows himself to be walked around to the unused side of the bed.

“There’s Pad Thai all over your front door,” the fight gone from him, he hangs his head, bashful. Watchful eyes examine your hands as you unbutton his dress shirt.

“Ah, yes. I’ll let you tend to that tomorrow.”

“Scully, it _is_ tomorrow.” Ten years melt from his face with the boyish grin he flashes.

“I am fully aware. Don’t push your luck. I’m still pissed that you stood me up.”

“I truly am sorry,” you’ve both stripped each other to your underwear.

“I know. And we’ll discuss all of that. At length. ‘ _Tomorrow’_.” A larger smile from him now.

“I’ll never do it again.”

“Mmhm. Heard it before, G-Man.”

“I swear.”

“Yep.” You both turn down the comforter and he tugs you to him upon reaching the cool crisp sheets. Settling you on his chest, head over his thundering heart.

“I wouldn’t even dream of it.”

“Mm. I’m going to need a lot of Pad Thai to make up for it too.”

“I was thinking of asking Byers to hook us up with a five-star doggie bag from The Lafayette and enjoying it with a good bottle of Sav Blanc somewhere on the National Mall.” You kiss his cotton clad pec and you feel his smile on the crown of your head.

“You had me at ‘five-star doggie bag’,” he laughs outright and you enjoy a stretch accompanied by a significant yawn.

“Wine and dine, Scully. I will wine and dine you,” it’s his turn to yawn. It distorts his lofty promises.

“Uhhm. Between dodgy motels, maybe you’ll find a diner that has shakes _and malts.”_

“But of course. Only the best for you. I know you have a thing for malt beverages.” _He always orders you a post-autopsy chocolate malt when the opportunity presents itself._

“Mul’er?”

“Hm?” _He’s adorable. But, you’re briefly afraid you’ll never be able to sleep again._

“Sleep now.”

“G’night, Scully.”

“N’t.” You drift off. Not quite finished processing all that has happened in the past twelve hours, yet much more content then you’ve been in the past twelve years.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcomed! Please and thank you!


End file.
